


with worse luck and far less gold

by lucifucker



Category: Bandom, Cobra Starship, Fall Out Boy, Panic! at the Disco, The Academy Is...
Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, as per the usual, author is stellar at tagging, canon au-superpowers, everybody gets superpowers but everythings the same basically, minor minor violence, ryan ross not painted in a very positive light
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-03
Updated: 2014-11-03
Packaged: 2018-02-24 00:17:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2561015
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lucifucker/pseuds/lucifucker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Okay, so maybe they were in a weird electronic storm, and maybe they all have superpowers, now.</p><p>It’s not as ridiculous as it sounds.</p><p>No. No, it’s definitely as ridiculous as it sounds.</p><p>or</p><p>the superhero au that only i wanted and am now dropping on everyone else</p>
            </blockquote>





	with worse luck and far less gold

Okay, so maybe they were in a weird electronic storm, and maybe they all have superpowers, now.

  
  


It’s not as ridiculous as it sounds.

  
  


No. No, it’s definitely as ridiculous as it sounds. 

  
  


Pete says it’s like Misfits except worse, and Patrick has to agree. 

 

They’re all at William’s, and it hits them like a fucking steam roller. There's no leadup, no rain or clouds, nothing in the forecast that says there should be a fucking torrential downpour. The only warning they get is the sound of the thunder, right above their heads, and then the hammering of the rain as it hits the house. 

  
  


Patrick and Joe are immediate, everyone knows as soon as they’re all fully conscious that somethings happening, because Patrick can feel it, building up inside of him and trying to push out, and he barely manages to get outside and thank the fucking lord that William lives in the middle of goddamn nowhere in a brick fucking house, because one minute he’s walking and the next, he’s kneeling down with his fist to the ground and every tree within fifty feet of him either falls or cracks. 

  
  


And it’s just them, the dudes from Panic!, Gabe, and William, because Ryland had convinced the rest of Cobra to go to a party that would actually involve drinking (because they all, weirdly, decided they’d rather watch Star Wars than get sloshed) and honestly, once it happens, it’s pretty much just a matter of figuring out  _ what  _ the fuck happened. 

  
  


Patrick wishes a lot of things, not the least of which being that they had ever actually figured that out. 

  
  


But they didn’t. 

  
  


They sat and talked for hours about the possibilities, about keeping it quiet, about being careful and conscientious (well, Patrick and Dallon wanted to be conscientious, Pete, Gabe and Joe wanted to cheat on Jeopardy just because they could) and by the end they’d decided that if any more weird shit popped up (as if Patrick being able to create sonic waves and Joe being fucking psychic wasn’t weird enough) they’d meet, but that until then, they should just...be who they were.

  
  


Which works out pretty well until the day Patrick and Pete get in a fight (because they’re a couple and they fight and fuck anyone who says they shouldn’t). 

 

Pete's got tears streaming down his cheeks, like he sometimes does, because he's Pete, and he's got more feelings than most people manage in their lifetime, and whenever he gets upset in any way, they kind of explode. Patrick's almost used to it. 

 

“I'm not saying we shouldn't, you fucking asshole, I just--”

 

“If you don't want to live with me just fucking _say it,_ Patrick, I--”

 

“I do! I do want to fucking live with you, why can't you fucking--”

 

“Because you fucking _wont--_ ” And then a plate flies across the small kitchen, and shatters, against the linoleum wall of the bus. 

  
  


They both freeze, because this isn’t a line that Patrick was ever willing to cross, because he wouldn’t, couldn’t hurt Pete, ever, and he knows, even in the deepest, darkest parts of his mind he still knows that Pete would never hurt him, so this is definitely enough to give them pause.

 

Pete's staring, wild-eyed and full of shock at the wall, and he looks at Patrick and immediately shakes his head, opening and closing his mouth without making a sound, and Patrick does the same.

 

“I didn't--”

 

“Me neither--”

 

“I wouldn't--”

 

“I know--”

 

Pete falls forward, and Patrick tugs him close, holds him as tight as he possibly can, with his fingers buried in the hair at the back of Pete's head and his eyes still fixed on the pieces of the plate on the floor.

 

Which is, in short, how they figure out that Pete has telekinesis. 

 

\--

  
  


They're at a show at a shitty bar in Detroit, when some asshole who’s definitely on something that’s definitely not good grabs Joe and pulls him offstage by his pants leg and into the crowd.

 

Granted, Joe’s got a hard head but when all his weight smacks it into the stage, he goes out like a light. Patrick freezes, and Pete’s eyes widen, and suddenly all the water bottles in the room are inexplicably (completely explicable, actually) hovering about two inches above wherever they were before, but that’s not actually that jarring. 

  
  


What  _ is  _ jarring is that one minute Andy’s behind the kit, and the next minute twelve people are being thrown across the room in rapid succession while he tosses them aside like pieces of paper, grabs the guy holding Joe with one hand and flicks his wrist, twisting his arm so hard that the bone snaps clean through his skin. 

  
  


The asshole drops Joe like a sack of bricks and screams at the top of his lungs, falls on his ass like a fucking idiot, but that doesn’t matter. Because now, there’s a clean circle on the floor around Joe and Andy, Andy, who’s got Joe’s entire body curled up in his arms, cradled against his chest like a child, and who’s standing up with way too much ease for a guy carrying a hundred and fifty pounds of deadweight guitarist, but he’s doing it, without even seeming to strain a muscle, carrying Joe like he’s as light as a feather through the crowd, who part like the fucking red sea in front of him, and up onto the stage, toward the back room. 

 

It takes Patrick a minute, because everyone in the room is so fucking loud, and it’s all jumbled, and he can’t fucking  _ move  _ when it gets like this, because he can feel the pressure building in his chest, and his entire body is vibrating, and the only thing he can coherently think is  _ no.  _ And when he looks over at Pete, it’s to find that his bass is vibrating in the air about six inches from his body, and he’s standing stock still, eyes trained on the back door.

  
  


“The show’s fucking over.” Patrick manages to grit into the mic, before he can grab Pete, and drag him offstage, although drag is a pretty loose term, because as soon as Patrick’s hand touches his jacket, Pete’s running full-tilt for the back, and everything is crumbling trepidation in his wake.

 

Anything that gets between Pete and Joe is getting thrown violently into a wall or a stairwell or a person without Pete ever even looking at it, crashing and breaking and flying away from him for no reason other than that Joe is hurt. It's like the whole fucking universe has narrowed down to the line from Pete to Joe, and the world is parting itself in front of him because it understands how badly it  _ needs _ to. 

  
  


Patrick makes it to the back, somehow, avoids the tables and chairs that are flying through the air as Pete goes, and ends up standing in the doorway with his heart in his mouth at exactly what he’s seeing. 

  
  


What he’s seeing being Andy, sitting on the floor cross-legged, still barefoot and bare-chested from before, with Joe in his lap, head pillowed against Andy’s bicep while a trickle of blood makes its way down from the gash on his forehead toward his ear, gazing up at Andy with half-open eyes while Pete ineffectually tries to clean him up with shaking hands and a couple of sterilized alcohol swabs. 

  
  


As he watches, Andy slides one hand up and brushes his thumb over Joe’s cheekbone, murmuring something soft that’s only for Joe’s ears, and the pressure in Patrick’s chest starts to subside, does so even more when Joe whispers something back and Andy leans down and kisses him, carefully, because this is something he knows. Andy touching Joe, talking to Joe, Andy being _gentle_ with Joe, in a way he almost never is with anyone else. Patrick knows this. 

  
  


They part, and Joe turns his head slowly toward Patrick, making eye contact with him for the briefest of seconds before there’s a voice in his head, and he might never get used to it, but it’s pretty goddamn comforting. 

 

_ It’s okay.  _ And Joe’s eyes are warm, and so fucking blue, and Patrick’s entire body is relaxing, the built-up energy ready to explode within him already dying down.  _ It’s okay. Come here.  _ So he does, slowly shuffles forward, and sinks to the floor next to Pete, and takes Joe’s hand because he needs to, needs to be fucking certain this is real, and when Joe’s fingers link with his and squeeze tight, he knows. 

  
  


There’s a long moment of silence where Joe looks at Pete and Patrick watches them have some kind of internal dialogue, something that would happen regardless of any psychic abilities, and then Andy looks at him and says;

 

“I broke his arm.” And Patrick pauses and says;

“Yeah, you did.” 

“I didn’t do anything. I just flicked my wrist.” 

“Well,” Patrick shrugs, and bites his lip. “I guess we know what your power is, now.” 

“Fuck.”

That pretty much sums it up. 

  
  


\--

  
  


The thing about Brendon is that he’s always been a very specific taste of person. Dallon knows this. Dallon, as the person who’s frequently (voluntarily, enthusiastically) subjected to sleeping in the same bed as Brendon, knows this better than anyone. 

  
  


So while it’s surprising that Dallon wakes up to Brendon sitting on his chest with wide, vulnerable eyes, saying “Dallon, I think I’m The Flash.”, it’s certainly nothing he can’t handle.

  
  


And because he’s a good boyfriend, and, as Spencer continues to remind him, a good person, he never freaks out, not once, as Brendon brings him outside and makes him watch while he speeds around the bus three times in a span of less than a second. 

  
  


When you’re in a long-term relationship with Brendon Urie, you learn to roll with the punches.

  
  


The real issue is keeping it quiet, because Brendon at home is already a giant ball of energy, bouncing around like his skin can’t hold him in, and that’s why Dallon loves him, or at least a part of it. Because Brendon’s bigger than this, whatever this is. 

  
  


But on stage, it’s even harder, because crazy as Brendon is in private, being in front of hundreds of screaming fans is significantly worse, he jumps around and buzzes with too much of himself enough without having super-speed, and once he can move at relatively the same speed as sound, it hits a whole new level.

  
  


They shift to make up for it, simplifying some of the bass parts for the more popular, more energetic songs so that Dallon can watch, and listen, and pay more attention to Brendon than his fingers (and that’s not even a stretch, really, because it’s always been like this) and if the stage-gay gets more involved, it’s only because now, when he glances over and Brendon looks like he’s about to start vibrating and running up the walls, instead of just passing it off, he steps closer, presses himself up against Brendon’s back and abandons playing in favor of wrapping one hand around Brendon’s hip, grounding him, until he calms down, at least a little. 

  
  


And if, afterward, Brendon fucks him harder, faster, than before, Dallon is 100% definitely not complaining. 

  
  


They figure out Kenny’s power completely by accident, and it’s by a wide margin less flashy than Brendon’s, but no less magnanimous, by Dallon’s standards. 

  
  


They end a show in Denver (small, short, to the point and actually kind of sweet) on Northern Downpour, and it’s bad enough that Brendon can barely hold it together while they’re up there, but once he gets backstage it’s over, and before any of them can react, he’s on the floor, head in his hands, sobbing, his entire body wracked with shudders, because he’s lost something, and he can’t get it back. 

  
  


And Dallon  _ knows  _ that, knows that it still hurts that Ryan and Jon are gone, but he’s at a loss, because it’s never, ever, been this bad before, and Spencer’s still onstage, saying goodbye to the audience because Brendon couldn’t, and he  _ doesn’t know what to do.  _

  
  


But Kenny does. 

  
  


Kenny, who’s always doing something cute or stupid, who Dallon’s only heard say something serious maybe twice since they’ve been friends, kneels down, and rests both his hands on top of Brendon’s in his hair, curling his elbows around the contours of Brendon’s arms, and he doesn’t glow, or explode, or even make any noise, but as soon as they make skin-on-skin contact, Brendon’s shoulders relax, like Kenny’s flipped some switch inside him, and he deflates, his whole body beginning to go slack. They stay still for a minute, and then Brendon looks up, his eyes blown wide as saucers and says;

 

“What the fuck did you just do?” And Dallon’s even more confused until he sees that the tears have stopped, notes that all the pain in Brendon’s face has been replaced with incredulity and something akin to joy, and Kenny just kind of shudders a little, and then goes still, taking it in stride when Brendon links their fingers tightly together with a very small, very confused smile. 

“I um.” He bites the inside of his cheek, and shrugs a little. “I...took it.” 

  
  


Dallon finally remembers how to use his legs, and promptly folds them under himself, dropping down beside Brendon and shaking his head. 

“Took it?” Kenny nods, slightly, and looks down at himself in mild disbelief. 

 

“You were hurting, so…” He shrugs again, and swallows, disentangling one hand from Brendon’s to scratch the back of his head, like he’s not really sure how to articulate what he’s saying. “I took it.” 

 

“The pain?” Brendon asks, and Kenny nods again, more fervently, this time. 

 

“I can kinda do that, now.” Dallon raises an eyebrow, and reaches out, taking Kenny’s free hand in his own. 

 

“Why didn’t you say anything?” Kenny stares at their hands for a long moment, and then shakes his head. 

 

“I wasn’t sure.”

 

Spencer, of course, chooses this moment to walk in, raise an eyebrow, and say;

 

“Wait, which one of you just proposed to who?”

 

And that’s the end of that.

  
  


\--

  
  


Patrick picks up the phone one day in mid-March, and William’s on the other line.

 

“Gabe’s got a power.” And he sounds okay, perfectly fine, but there’s a sense of urgency to his voice that makes Patrick’s stomach churn. 

  
  


So they do the only logical thing. They all pile into a plane during a three-day break from the tour and head to William’s, and once they arrive, it’s less nerve-wracking, because William runs up to Patrick in the airport, grinning like a maniac and throws himself into Patrick’s waiting arms, which helps.

  
  


They end up in a shitty bar somewhere off the strand, some basement dive, not that any of them mind much, but it’s still gross, and when they’re all settled, Patrick can finally drag William into a booth and make him sit his ass down and explain. 

 

“Is everyone okay?” William nods slowly. 

 

“We’re all fine. No-one got hurt. Gabe…” His eyes flick over toward him and back. “Gabe’s...power has become apparent.” 

 

“How long ago?”

 

“About a month.” Patrick balks, and William manages to look righteous and guilty all at the same time as he stirs his bright pink drink and  _ damn  _ that is frustrating to have to process. 

 

“A  _ month?”  _ Patrick hisses, and it’s honestly a real effort not to shout, because they’d talked about this, about how they’d call everyone up as soon as anything happened, and this is definitely  _ not  _ as soon as it happened.

 

“I held off calling you.” William mumbles, and Patrick levels him with his best angry-older-brother glare. 

 

“Why?” 

 

“That.” William says simply, pointing at Patrick’s face, and Patrick rolls his eyes. 

 

“Bill--”

 

“No. Come on, Trick, you freak easy, and you know it.” The younger boy sighs, and his shoulders droop just enough that Patrick’s expression softens, if only on instinct, and he reaches out, resting his hand over William’s and linking their fingers together. “I just...we didn’t...really understand what Gabe could do, and I didn’t want to scare you.”

  
  


“I’m hesitant to ask, but...what...does Gabe….do?” William’s face immediately splits into an easy grin and he leans back in his seat, looking over toward where Gabe and Pete are deep in conversation about what appears to be the relative merits of levitating shot glasses as a business opportunity.

 

“Gabe?” He calls, and the older man’s head shoots up like he’s a fucking puppy, an impression which is only heightened when he bounds over and immediately crawls across the booth and into William’s welcoming arms.

“ _ Hola, Guillermo _ .” He murmurs joyously, pressing his face into the crook of William’s neck with gusto. “ _ Qué necesitas de mí?”  _ William smiles affectionately and cards his fingers through Gabe’s short, jagged hair, pressing his nose against his forehead. 

“Patrick wants to know what you do, baby.” William practically purrs, and Gabe pulls back, eyes wide, and smile even wider. 

“I mean, if you’re, y’know, cool with that, I don’t--” Patrick starts to apologize, but William knows everything there is to know about Patrick apologizing and cuts him off, while Gabe laughs and shakes his head. 

“He loves it, Trick, no worries.” He explains, and rolls his eyes a little when Gabe nods furiously, turning toward Patrick slowly, his movements much more controlled as the set of his shoulder changes slightly, becoming more concrete. 

 

“Don’t be scared.” Gabe says slowly, and Patrick very quickly notes that this is happening very fast and he just asked a question and god dammit, why is everyone he knows a giant drama queen? But there’s no way out, now, because already Gabe’s face is changing, and wow, Patrick was expecting something, anything, other than that. 

  
  


But it’s definitely happening, Gabe closes his eyes for a long moment, and when they open up again, they’re bright green, and instead of a normal pupil, his is a slit, down the center of his eye. And honestly, that alone is more than enough to make Patrick stop in his tracks, but as he watches, Gabe’s smile gets wider, and wider, until his jaw unhinges and his tongue slips out from between his teeth, long, and forked, and Patrick is 100% certain that he’s trapped in some b-list horror movie right now, as Gabe hisses and bares too-sharp teeth at him, and William slides an arm around his shoulders, rubbing gently at his arm. 

 

“That’s enough, baby.” William murmurs, and Gabe licks his lips, and fuck, that is weird, but he turns back toward William, William, who reaches up like he’s seen this a thousand times, and strokes the tips of his fingers down Gabe’s slightly green-tinted cheek, and Gabe hisses again, but it’s softer this time as he leans forward and noses along William’s neck. 

  
  


And it’s actually a miracle that Patrick isn’t made incredibly uncomfortable by this, but he supposes that the amount of Pete in his lap he ends up with kind of nullifies his PDA sensitivity, even when one half of the pairing is slowly turning into a  _ fucking snake.  _

  
  


It’s glacial, really, the pace at which Gabe’s face returns to normal, considering how quickly it got weird, but eventually he looks up at Patrick with normal, brown eyes and normal, circular pupils as his skin loses the green tint that Patrick had barely noticed before. His jaw is definitely not unhinging even though he’s smiling, a little more shyly than Patrick’s used to, like he’s a kid who just showed his mom his first drawing of his favorite superhero or something. Patrick grins back, can’t help it, because even he has to admit that that is  _ incredible.  _

 

“So, you’re a snake, now.” He says, and Gabe winks. 

 

“A cobra, baby. Not just any old snake. We checked.” 

 

“And you can keep it in check?” Gabe nods earnestly. 

 

“As much as you can.” Which isn’t saying much, honestly, but Patrick’s appreciative of the sentiment. 

 

“He’s good.” William supplies, stroking the back of Gabe’s neck and pressing just a little closer. “Really fucking good. Only really slips up when he’s pissed, or if I--” Gabe clamps one hand over William’s mouth, and when Patrick looks back at him his smile is taut. 

 

“What happens during our bedroom activities is none of your Stumpy business.” Gabe explains, and Patrick raises an eyebrow at them. 

“Are the fangs poisonous?” Gabe nods slowly, like he’s not quite sure what Patrick’s getting at. “And you’re not worried about...biting him?” He says it slowly, because he trusts Gabe with William, he really does, but he has to check. He just has to. 

 

“No, no I wouldn’t, if--if it were gonna--” He’s tripping over his words, apparently sent into a state of complete stuttering incoherence at the mere thought of hurting William, who is not quite so phased, and smoothly, without any hesitation, picks a steak knife up off the table, and stabs it into his other hand. 

  
  


Patrick jumps, but apparently ‘stabs’ is an overstatement, because the metal bends against his skin, doesn’t even draw blood when it snaps and falls into pieces. Gabe stares at William’s hand but doesn’t flinch, like this isn’t anything new, like he’s seen it a thousand times, and it all kind of clicks into place. 

 

“You’re…”

 

“Indestructible.” Patrick nods.

 

“Right, which means even if he did bite you…” Gabe shrugs and looks at the table. 

 

“It wouldn’t...I wouldn’t…” William slides the hand that he just stabbed across the table and takes Patrick’s back, squeezing gently. 

 

“ I’m okay, Trick. Really.”

  
And really, Patrick has no other option than that to believe it.

  
  


\--

 

“Gabe.”

 

“Mm.”

 

“Gabey.” 

 

“Mmf.” 

 

“ _ Gabriel _ .” He hisses, and Gabe looks up from where he’s got his lips pressed to William’s solar plexus. “I’m not made of glass, Gabe.” William quirks one irritated eyebrow. Gabe bites his lip, and props himself up on his elbows, levering himself over to rest his nose against William’s collarbone. He mumbles something, but William doesn’t quite catch it. 

 

“What?”

 

“He was right.” Gabe says, just barely audible, while his fingertips trace patterns up Williams sides. “What--what if...what if I bite you?” William sets his jaw, and slides his hands up, cupping Gabe’s neck, and pulling him into a firm kiss.

 

“You won’t.” He murmurs against his lips, wrapping his legs tightly around Gabe’s waist. “You haven’t yet.”

 

“Bilvy--” He starts, but William shakes his head. 

 

“And even if you do.” He says smoothly, stroking his thumbs over Gabe’s jaw, “I’ll be fine.” Gabe looks down, and William smiles wide, nudging their noses together. “Now show me those pretty yellow eyes, huh?” And he knows that on some level he probably shouldn’t be pushing this, should just let Gabe do what he does best, accommodate William, but he can’t.

  
  


Because this thing inside Gabe, this talent he has, it’s beautiful. Whatever it is. And William loves it, just like he loves Gabe, always has and always will and he’s not going to let this become a part of himself that he hates. He can’t. 

  
  


There’s a long moment of silence, and then Gabe raises his head, slow, and careful, and almost cautious, a grin spreading across his face when his eyes meet Williams, black slits over golden irises, staring down at him. His forked tongue flicks out to wet his lips, and William lets out a soft sigh of relief. 

 

“Good boy.” 

  
  


\--

  
  


Everything’s basically fine until Patrick has a nightmare one night and almost blows up the bus. 

  
  


Pete wakes up to Patrick jerking around in his arms, drenched with sweat and so deeply asleep that no amount of shaking and shouting wakes him, and before everything went crazy this wasn’t a problem, just something that happened, sometimes, and Pete would hold him though it and stroke his hair and tell him it’d be okay.

  
  


But now, Patrick’s vibrating, not just shaking, but  _ vibrating _ , and as it gets faster and harder, Pete knows that it’s not just a normal nightmare. 

  
  


And he’s not sure what to do, because he can’t just leave him here, can’t run off the bus away from what’s coming, because if he does then the whole thing’ll come down on Patrick, but he can’t stay either, and carrying Patrick out into a safe place is  _ not  _ an option, not for him. So he does the only thing he can do.

  
  


He shuts his eyes as tightly as he can, and ‘thinks’ to Joe, they way they’ve been practicing, as hard as he can.

  
  


_ Joe, help, please, help.  _

  
  


And that’s all it takes, apparently, because less than five seconds later, Joe’s voice is echoing through his head. 

  
  


_ We’re coming.  _

  
  


And he loves his band, really fucking loves it, because it’s not even thirty seconds before Andy is bursting through the back of the bus, with Joe hot on his heels, immediately making a beeline for Patrick, who’s now caged in by Pete’s limbs to keep him from rolling off the bed and, like, breaking his fucking neck. Andy’s in his boxers and Joe’s hair is sticking out in every direction even more than usual, and he looks weirdly small, in the dark, pale and almost sickly looking, like Patrick and Pete not being okay is making  _ him  _ not be okay. 

  
  


“He’s not waking up.” Pete rasps, as Andy pushes him, albeit gently, out of the way, gathers Patrick up in his arms like he did with Joe all those weeks ago, and holds him still while Joe crawls closer. “Andy, you gotta get him out of here, the whole bus’ll come down on him--” Joe shakes his head. 

  
  


“No, every bus here will come down on everyone, Pete. Getting him out isn’t going to help.” He frames Patrick’s face with both hands, and leans down, rests their foreheads together and fucking christ, Pete wants to laugh because Joe is such a fucking shitty psychic cliche, but he can’t, because, miraculously, Patrick goes still.

  
  


And not the eerie, creepy kind of still that people talk about when they watch their loved ones go into comas or slip away, the jolting kind where Patrick’s entire body goes rigid as his eyes open, and he freezes, Andy’s arms the only thing keeping him from falling over.

  
  


Joe just stays where he is, though, strokes his thumbs over Patrick’s temples and says things to him that Pete and Andy can’t hear, and eventually, at a completely fucking glacial pace, Patrick relaxes, and Andy releases him just enough that he can crawl the three feet away into Pete’s waiting arms. 

  
  


Which is how they decide that in spite of their psychic pothead’s nuance for weed and the fact that Hemmy eats shoes, they need to all be on one bus. 

  
  


Because now more than ever, they need to keep each other safe.

  
  


\--

  
  


It’s a great night. 

  
  


It really is. Because Joe and Pete came over (nix Andy and Patrick who decided to stay in and do yoga or...whatever it is that they do when Pete and Joe aren’t around) and Spencer actually looks  _ happy,  _ grinning and laughing while Pete levitates the salt shakers on the dining room table around until there’s a little salt-and-pepper tornado over the butter dish. 

  
  


“Okay, okay, now do the hot sauce.” Spencer says, and Pete looks at it, but Joe whacks him in the back of the head and he glowers at the table instead of actually covering it in red sticky bullshit. 

  
  


Dallon’s got one hand on the table, and the other’s tangled with Brendon’s under the table, his thumb brushing over Brendon’s knuckles, and that by itself, not to mention the friends and the weed, is enough to make him irrationally happy. 

  
  


Which he remains, until the doorbell rings, and when he opens it, it’s Ryan. 

  
  


Ryan, who has blue hair, and a sour expression, and does not look happy. 

  
  


“Ry, what--” He cuts him off. 

 

“Can I come in?” He’s bouncing on one foot, a little, and he looks so nervous, so different from the Ryan that Brendon knows, steady and careful and smooth in every movement. 

  
  


This is a whole new Ryan, and Brendon just nods as he lets him in. 

  
  


Ryan immediately grabs him, and pulls him close, hugging him, hard, and hey, Brendon’s been waiting for this kind of a resolution for, what, four years? So he hugs back, wraps his arms around Ryan’s slim frame and holds him just as tight.

  
  


“Babe, do you remember where we put the--oh.” He reels back, and Dallon’s standing in the doorway to the dining room, looking shocked, and confused, and maybe a little crestfallen, and Brendon immediately drops his arms from around Ryan, moving in one smooth motion to link his fingers through Dallon’s and squeeze gently. 

 

“Dal, this is Ryan.” He says motioning toward the paisley-clad man in their front hall. “Ryan, this is--”

 

“Dallon.” Ryan cuts him off, looking significantly less nervous and significantly more pissed than he did when he came in. “Your new boytoy.” 

  
  


Dallon stiffens next to him, and Brendon presses closer, rubbing his thumb over the taller man’s wrist. 

 

“Fiancee.” He supplies, and Ryan flat-out glares. 

 

“Right.” He mutters, and then shakes his head, turning back to Brendon. “Sorry I didn’t call, but I don’t have your number, anymore.” Brendon looks at his feet. 

 

“Yeah, I--”

 

“Lost mine. Like I told you to.” Ryan shrugs. “Not your fault.” 

 

Brendon nods, slowly, and Ryan continues. 

 

“Anyway, I’m here cause…” He trails off as there’s a bang from the next room and Joe’s voice shouting something about ‘Brendon get your ass in here before Spencer kills me’, and Brendons eyes flick from Ryan to the dining room and back to Ryan.

 

“I--” Ryan shakes his head. 

 

“Go help him out, I can wait.” He smiles, just a little, and Brendon nods, starting to turn away, and then realizing that his fingers are still linked tightly with Dallon’s. 

  
  


He squeezes again, and tugs at his hand gently, until Dallon gets the message and bends down just enough for Brendon to nudge his cheek with his nose, and brush the lock of hair that’s fallen over his forehead out of the way before he shuffles into the dining room.

  
  


And he must look fucking shell-shocked or something, because Joe looks up at him and immediately freezes where he’s trying to put the salt and pepper back into the shakers with absolutely no help from Pete and Spencer who are still arm-wresting. 

  
  


_ What happened.  _

  
  


Brendon doesn’t exactly flinch, but he does glare at Joe, because the Fall Out Boy people might have gotten used to this whole Joe-talking-to-people-telepathically thing but he sure as hell hasn’t. 

  
  


“ Uh--” He stops mentally bitching when he remembers exactly  _ why  _ he warranted that particular mental intrusion, and watches Joe’s jaw go slack, which, still intrusive, but at least he didn’t have to say it out loud. 

  
  


Spencer and Pete have now stopped fighting and Pete is looking confusedly between them while Spencer raises an eyebrow before starting to ask. 

 

“What--”

 

“Ryan’s here.” Joe cuts him off, and as Brendon stands there he shifts just a little closer to Pete, just enough that his hip is pressed against Pete’s shoulder, and Pete pales, his eyes going wide like saucers. 

 

“He. He’s what?” 

 

Brendon swallows thickly, and nods, because Pete and Ryan might never have had a falling out, per say, but they definitely stopped talking. 

  
  


“He--can’t--” Pete shakes his head, and breaks off, and Brendon bites his lip to keep back the questions that are bubbling to the surface about what happened, because he knows the Brendon-and-Ryan story by heart, but the Pete-and-Ryan story is still a mystery to him.

  
  


He looks at Spencer, looks for what he always looks for in Spencer, help, or an answer, or a solution, or  _ anything,  _ and all he’s met with is Spencer’s silent, wide-eyed stare. 

  
  


“Spence.” He rasps, and Spencer’s eyes finally focus on him, still scared, and confused, and his mouth is open like he’s going to say what Brendon knows he wants to say, ask what he knows he wants to ask, and Brendon doesn’t have it in him to say no, that it was just Ryan.

  
  


Just Ryan, and not Jon. 

  
  


And he wants to say something, wants to reach out and grab Spencer and hold him as tight as he fucking can, but then a crash reverberates around the house from the living room, and Brendon doesn’t stop to think before he’s launching himself into the next room. 

  
  


The first thing he notices is that there’s this overpowering, acrid burnt smell filling the room. 

  
  


The second thing he notices is that Dallon is what’s burning.

  
  


Dallon, who's been thrown up against the wall in the living room, and lifted, and Brendon doesn’t know how or when Ryan Ross, puny, scrawny Ryan Ross got strong enough to lift a 6’ 4” adult male, but apparently he is, now.

  
  


Not just lift, but  _ burn,  _ too, because Ryan’s hands are pressed against Dallon’s chest, and his fingers are digging, hard, into Dallon’s skin. Skin, not shirt, because the shirt is mostly burnt away where Ryan’s holding him, and Dallon’s chest is  _ smoking,  _ and he’s got his fingers wrapped tight around Ryan’s wrists like hes trying to pull him off but  _ can’t, _ and it's like Brendon's entire world is crumbling. 

  
  


He's _frozen,_ like a fucking statue, staring on helpless, and then Dallon lets out a soft, broken little noise and Brendon watches his fingers loosen, just slightly, on Ryan’s wrists, and that’s when his brain kicks in. 

  
  


He’s moved from the doorway to where they’re standing in less than half a second, and thank god for superspeed because it means he can get close enough fast enough to grab Ryan’s arms and try to wrestle him off. 

“ Ryan. Ryan  _ stop.”  _

  
  


But Ryan’s never been great at listening, least of all to Brendon, so he doesn’t stop, just jerks his shoulder hard enough that Brendon gets pushed back and presses his hands harder against Dallon, and Brendon’s heart rate starts to speed up, and Dallon’s screwed his eyes shut, clenching his jaw, because he’s strong, and he’s stable, and he always makes it through, but Ryan’s  _ not letting go.  _

  
  


“ Ryan, please.” Brendon breathes, and flashes back over, grabbing Ryan by his shoulder and shaking him, trying to push himself between them because this cannot be fucking happening. Because this is Ryan, who, five years ago, refused to kill flies on the bus, and who is now holding Dallon down while he fucking burns alive, and this is Ryan, hurting Dallon, and Brendon can’t do this, he  _ can’t.  _

 

“ Ryan, stop, please, Ryan  _ please.”  _ His voice is choked, and broken, and he’s crying, he knows he is, because he’s wrestling as hard as he can with Ryan’s arms on Dallon and he  _ can’t move him,  _ and he grabs Ryan’s face, frames it with his hands just like he did when they were younger, and tries with all his might to get him to look at him, just for a second, because if Ryan looks at him he’ll stop, he’ll understand, and he doesn’t even know what he’s saying just knows that it’s a constant litany of  _ Ryan, please, please stop it, you’re hurting him, stop, please, Ryan,  _ _** please. ** _

  
  


And just as fast as it started, it stops, and Ryan’s being wrenched back, and Dallon is falling down, slumping to the floor with his eyes half-shut and his skin smoldering with matching hand prints, and Brendon, for lack of anything more intelligent to do, falls, the same way he does everything.

  
  


With Dallon. 

  
  


\--

  
  


Spencer runs into the living room just in time to watch Pete throw Ryan across the room without touching him. 

  
  


It all gets a little kooky from there.

  
  


Because Dallon is on the floor with Brendon bent over him, choking out broken sobs, and stroking his fingers down Dallon’s cheeks, his neck, over his arms. Spencer’s a little too shell-shocked to actually fully understand what Brendon’s saying, but logically he can register that it’s a basic continuous stream of  _ sorry I’m so sorry, Dal, look at me, Dal, please, please, I’m sorry-- _

  
  


And even if he doesn’t really comprehend it, it still hurts, because even at his most base state of not-really-present, Spencer’s first gut reaction is to make sure Brendon’s okay, and Brendon is very, very clearly very not okay. 

  
  


So he looks away, but that’s not actually any better, because he’s immediately confronted with Pete, holding one hand out with his arm and back rigid, like he’s holding up some great weight, and Ryan, trapped, high up on the wall, struggling to get free and shouting at Pete to  _ let me the fuck down, Wentz, you fucking asshole, I thought we were fucking friends.  _

  
  


And Pete’s got that look in his eye, that Spencers only seen a few times before, mostly right before the Big Bad Best Buy incident back in 07, hard, and pained, and too fucking hurt for words as he shakes his head. 

  
  


“ I  _ had _ a friend.” He murmurs, and keeps his arm up as Joe steps up next to him and stares intently at Ryan until he goes limp. 

  
  


And as Ryan slumps to the floor and Dallon starts to blink awake, Spencer basically decides that this is too much fucking information, and does what is clearly the only reasonable thing to do. 

  
  


He fucking bolts. Runs out of the room just as fast as he’d come in and stumbles toward the front door because his best friend just tried to fucking kill his other best friend and his  _ other  _ other best friend is fucking  _ sobbing on the floor _ , and he can’t actually really breathe, his chest is too tight and his lungs just refuse to do their fucking job and he throws the door open and basically falls out of it. 

  
  


Falls out, down, and directly into something warm, and soft, which smells vaguely of L’oreal no-tears shampoo, and which wraps long arms firmly around his waist and pulls him close without a second of hesitation, and literally every single thing is fucked up right now, and he can’t fucking think.

  
  


So he presses closer to whatever this is and buries his face in its neck and curls his fingers tightly in the fabric of his grey cotton sweater and holds him as close as he possibly can and doesn’t let go for fear that his legs won’t actually keep holding him up. 

  
  


And Jon, for his part, doesn’t flinch, or move away, just cards his fingers through Spencer’s hair and rubs his thumb in smooth circles over the base of his spine and fucking holds him, because he’s fucking Jon, and that’s what he fucking does, and Spencer missed this, missed  _ Jon  _ so fucking much, and maybe he did or maybe he didn’t realize how much he needed Jon until now, but he did, fucking  _ does.  _

  
  


Because Jon and Ryan walked out, and it’s been three years, but that doesn’t make it hurt any less, doesn’t make the hole where Jon was any less real or any less large, and it fucking  _ hurts.  _

  
  


And when his throat stops tying itself into knots, when he can finally find it within him to speak, all he can really manage to get out is;

  
  


“ _ Stay _ .”

  
  


And Jon just holds him, if possible, closer, and shakes his head, and says;

  
  


“I’m not going anywhere.”

  
  


-0-

  
  


When all’s said and done, Ryan leaves, with, apparently, some kind of special, very personal mental instruction from Joe never to come back, which Joe will not share with any of them but Pete, who’s quiet for a long, long time, and then nods. 

  
  


The burns are fucking bad when they get back, and Brendon is still freaking out, still has tears dripping down his cheeks where he’s sitting with Dallon’s head in his lap, pressing kiss after soft kiss over his pale face, and he looks up when Spencer and Jon walk in, eyes blown wide and bloodshot and Spencer doesn’t think he’s ever seen Brendon this broken in his life. 

  
  


But Jon does what Jon always does.

  
  


Jon fixes it, and maybe that’s the best way Spencer can explain Jon’s power, because he kind of wants to throw up when he sees Dallon just  _ lying  _ there, barely even breathing and definitely not moving, but Jon doesn’t hesitate.

  
  


Just sinks down to the floor next to Dallon and Brendon, and reaches out, resting one hand on Dallon’s shoulder and the other on his solar plexus, right under the spot where Ryan’s thumb was. Jon looks at Brendon, and Brendon looks at Jon, speechless, maybe for the first time in his life, and as Spencer watches the skin on Dallon’s chest just seamlessly mold back together, watches the flesh flow back together and the pain disappear from Dallon’s face, and by the time Jon lets him go there’s no trace of anything left. Just smooth skin and Brendon’s hands immediately sliding over it, like he can’t believe what just happened.

  
  


And honestly, Spencer wouldn’t be able to either if the last few months hadn’t happened, but they did, and as he watches Brendon pull Jon close and bury his face in his chest, he thinks maybe  _ that  _ is the most unbelievable thing he’s seen tonight.

  
  


Pete and Joe kind of slip out the door at some point during Brendon crying and Jon holding him and Dallon slowly waking up, and then it’s just them.

  
  


They sit down on the floor because Brendon’s legs are a little bit too wobbly to move and Dallon’s still fucking exhausted from basically almost dying, and Jon tugs Spencer down next to him, and threads their fingers together on his knee, like nothing happened, like they’re still nineteen and he never left, and Spencer simultaneously wants to scream, cry, and laugh because Jon is  _ here.  _

  
  


The first thing Brendon wants to know is; “ _ How _ ?” which is also definitely what Spencer is thinking, and Jon nods. 

  
  


“So...we were doing some Young Veins stuff about...six months ago, before that ended up…” He shrugs, and no-one says ‘crashing and burning’, but it doesn’t take a psychic to know they’re all thinking it. “And uh...there was this storm? At Ryan’s place outside Chicago, and...I dunno, we kinda…” He looks down. “Ended up...with...super...powers?” 

  
  


Spencer stares at his and Jon’s interlocked hands and nods. 

  
  


“So...Ryan can...burn things.” He says slowly, and Jon looks at him, biting his lip. 

  
  


“Yeah. Basically.” He says, and exhales slowly. “We figured it out right...right before we stopped...doing music together, and, y’know.” Jon’s fingers shift in Spencers, and Spencer waits for him to let go, but he just holds on tighter. 

  
  


“And you?” Spencer asks, and Jon looks at him, eyes wide and sincere as he says;

  
  


“I can help, when the people I love aren’t safe.” He shrugs, and swallows, hard, looking back down at his feet. “It’s like...like, whenever someone I care about is hurt, I can heal them, and...when someone’s not..okay, I can always find them.” he squeezes Spencer’s hand. “That’s how I found you.” 

  
  


Spencer blinks, because, what? 

  
  


“What?” 

  
  


Jon bites his lip, and looks at his hand where it’s interlocked with Spencer’s. 

  
  


“I was...on my way over here, already, I knew B lived around here, somewhere, and I wanted...to find you.” There’s a kind of pain in Jon’s voice that Spencer’s never heard before as he goes on. “But I wasn’t sure where I was going, and then...I felt it, and…” He trails off. “Now I’m here.” 

  
  


Spencer wants to kiss him, but doesn’t, just like he hasn’t for the past ten or so years. 

  
  


“You gonna run away, again?” He ask before he can stop himself, and he can _hear_ the bitterness in his voice but honestly he can't bring himself to care. Jon ducks his head, and squeezes Spencer's hand. 

 

“Spence, I'm—I'm sorry, I didn't think--” Spencer shakes his head, and pulls his hand away, as smoothly as he can, folding it down under his calf. 

 

“S'fine. Water under the bridge.” He looks at Dallon, desperate to change the subject in literally any possible way, and Dallon meets his eyes, and gives him one of his stupid fucking 'I'm Dallon Weekes and I know everything' looks, but Spencer ignores him. “How're you feeling?” 

 

There's a pregnant pause where Dallon keeps staring at him, and then he shrugs. 

 

“Uh. Crispy.” Brendon chokes out something halfway between a laugh and a sob, and Spencer doesn't look at Jon.

  
  


\--

  
  


They play a show in Chicago, and they’re all somewhat more at ease, there. Andy, too, even though it’s not exactly Milwaukee. Nothing goes wrong, and nothing gets fucked up, and halfway through Sugar, when Joe starts inexplicably lifting off the ground, he’s not surprised, because Pete’s giving him that _look_ , that one that says he’s got no idea what he’s doing, but he knows it’s amazing. 

  
  


And he keeps looking back at Andy, sending him wave after wave of what he’s feeling, because even if Pete’s too wired to handle it, Andy just plays harder, until his sticks break and he needs a new pair. 

  
  


He presses Joe down onto the bed and licks the taste of cigarettes from his mouth, holding him down with his weight and his strength exactly as much as Joe wants him to, is begging him to, even with his lips pressed tightly together as Andy sucks a mark into his throat. 

  
  


Andy’s fingers tangle with his above their heads, pinning his hands down onto the pillows and Joe thinks maybe this is what life is supposed to feel like. Weird superpowers and hardcore love, and maybe there’s bad shit, but there’s good shit, too. 

  
  


_ I love you.  _

  
  


He watches Andy pull back, watches deep grey eyes meet his own, and the entire world pauses, for a second, rests on Andy's shoulders. 

  
  


"I love you, too." It's soft spoken, almost whispered, into the space between them, and Joe feels so small, and so safe, and when he pushes himself up and catches Andy's lips with his own it feels like coming home. 

  
  


\--

  
  


William wakes up slowly, with an arm wrapped firmly around his waist, and sunlight warming him through the open window. He shifts, slightly, and Gabe groans behind him, and tightens his hold. 

  
  


William turns to look out the window and thinks about this, about them, about all of what's happened. 

  
  


He's indestructible. Virtually immortal, and it's only been three months. They don't know if he ages. 

  
  


He turns his head and looks at Gabe's slack, sleeping face, mouth slightly open and free hand pillowed under his head. He's peaceful, when he sleeps, a stark contrast to the buoyant, energetic way he is the rest of the time. His forehead is free from the creases that are usually crinkling it, and William acts on his instinct and leans forward, pressing a soft kiss where the worst of the wrinkles usually is. 

  
  


As he moves, a lock of his hair falls across his cheek, and he blinks when two long fingers brush it back behind his ear, and then trace down his cheek, feather-light. 

  
  


William leans back, and Gabe's eyes are set on him, intent and steady, and sometimes it hurts, the way Gabe looks at William, as though he's the only thing in the universe. Gabe looks at William the way flowers look at the sun and wolves look at their young, something they need, and love, and prioritize above everything else. 

  
  


Gabe looks at William like he's found his salvation, in a skinny boy with wild hair and pale skin. 

  
  


"Morning." William murmurs, and Gabe doesn't say anything, just leans forward and rests their cheeks together, a warm weight against Williams skin. His arm tightens again, pulling William until they're pressed flush together. Gabe's shirt is still on the floor from last night and his skin is hot on Williams, every point of contact a solid, grounding force. William slides his hands up Gabe's arms, over his shoulders and into his hair, keeping him close. 

  
  


It makes William feel endless, and makes him wish that he wasn't, especially when Gabe presses his nose against his temple, and whispers; "I wish you weren't gonna leave me." 

  
  


"Gabe--" William starts, and Gabe shakes his head, cuts him off with a finger pressed to his lips, pulls back to make eye contact. 

 

"You're not going to age, _Guillermito_." He says, keeps his voice calm, but William can see the way his throat is constricting. "You've been like this for months and your hair hasn't grown. Not a bit." He strokes his hand over Williams locks, and shakes his head. "I love you, William, and I know you love me. But we're not going to grow old together." 

  
  


William kisses the fingers over his mouth and shakes his head, but Gabe just smiles sadly. 

  
  


“It’s just gonna be me, Bilvy. And you’re gonna stay young.” He leans forward, and kisses William gently, softly, like, flower petals and sweet summer breezes. “No-one wants to be with some washed-up fifty-year old pop singer when they’re staying forever young.” 

  
  


“ _ I  _ do.” William all but growls against Gabe’s lips, and his fingers tighten slightly in his hair, not willing to let go because this is Gabe,  _ his  _ Gabe, and he couldn’t stop wanting him if he tried. “ _ Gabanti _ , you could be eighty years old and in a chair and you’d still be the only one for me.” 

  
  


Gabe's eyes are shut tight, and his expression is almost pained, and it  _ hurts,  _ to see him like this, hurts in a way William hardly ever feels. 

  
  


"I wanted to." He breathes, and Gabe opens his eyes, wide and searching. "To get old with you. I had so many dreams about picket fences and rocking chairs." Gabe swallows thickly, and William keeps going. "I've seen your dad, Papi. I know what's coming." He brushes their noses together. "I still want it." 

  
  


Gabe ducks his head and buries his face in the crook of Williams neck, and nothing's fixed, not really, but William figures he'll see if Gabe believes him in fifty years. 

  
  


\--

  
  
  


“He's not gonna leave, again, y'know.” Spencer's standing in his kitchen, covered up to his elbows in flower and no closer to being done with kneading this fucking stupid bread, and Brendon is, naturally, sitting on the other counter, completely clean, sipping a beer.

Naturally.

“Yeah, well, we thought that the first time, and look where that got us.” Brendon quirks an eyebrow.

“Where, exactly, is that?”

“Well, your boyfriend got singed.” Brendon winces, slightly, and Spencer almost regrets it, but keeps going. “Ryan's...gone, probably forever, and Jon...”

“Hasn't left, yet.” Brendon taps his fingers against the neck of the bottle, and they make a soft, wet sound where they hit. “Which, by the way, is pretty fucking big of him, considering the way you've been acting.”

“The fuck is that supposed to mean?” Spencer is vaguely aware that maybe he's kneading the bread a little more viciously than is strictly necessary but it's pissing him off. The bread. Just the bread. Brendon sighs, exasperatedly. Fucking bread.

“Spence, you haven't even given him a chance to _apologize,_ let alone start to, like, y'know. Actually fix anything?” 

“Because there's nothing to fucking fix!” The dough slams down on the cutting board hard enough to create a cloud of flour and make Brendon flinch, and Spencer takes a long, deep breath.

“There's nothing to fix.” He says again, and shakes his head. “There's—there's nothing _left_ , B.” Brendon opens his mouth to speak, but Spencer keeps going. “He—he was just _gone._ For fucking three years, I heard fucking nothing, and then he shows up on what may or may not be the most traumatic night of our lives together and just—just fixes everything?” he shakes his head again. “No. No, that's not—that's not how it fucking works.” 

There's a long, long silence, where the only sounds are that of the dough slapping the board and Brendon's inconsistent sips of his beer, and then;

“He asked me if you'd been with anyone.” Spencer's face feels like it's on fire, and he jerks his head up.

“What did you say?”

“I said no.” Brendon says, and makes his 'I know I'm right' face. Spencer hates that face. “Am I wrong?”

Spencer doesn't say anything, but he figures the way he shoves the dough into the oven is enough of an answer, considering the smug-as-fuck face Brendon makes.

–

They're lying around on the couch, watching fucking Project Runway or some shit, when Joe looks up at Pete and says;

“You gotta stop thinking that shit.” Pete chooses to ignore, briefly, the gross invasion of his privacy, and shakes his head.

“What?” Joe sets his mouth in a tight line, and Pete shakes his head. “Seriously, dude, what?”

“All that--” He breaks off with an irritated jerk of his head. “All that self-loathing shit. About how you're not fucking good enough for us, or whatever. You gotta stop.” Pete ducks his head, and shrugs.

“I mean. It's true, kind of.” It is. He knows it, Joe knows it, they all fucking know it. It's not fucking _news_ or anything. But Joe's looking at him with the big, wide, hurt kind of eyes, and his curls are a little bit out of place, and Pete's never really been able to say no to him when he looks like that, so he sits back, and lets him finish. 

“You're—you're fucking important, Pete. You're important to Patrick, you're important to Andy, you're—you're important to me.” Pete looks at his hands, and the floor, and his shoes, and not Joe, because it hurts, almost, to have someone tell you this shit when you know it's not true, it really--

“Seriously? While I'm telling you you matter? Really?” Fucking telepathy.

“Look, dude, I get what you're trying to say, and I appreciate it.” Pete shrugs. “But it's—I'm not gonna stop...thinking I suck. It's just not gonna happen.”

Joe looks at him for a long moment, and bites his lip, and Pete can  _see_ the cogs turning, plan after plan after plan getting churned out and shot down, and maybe this is why he started loving Joe. 

Because he's got so much  _thought,_ there's so much in there, and Pete loves every day that he gets to be exposed to Joe's genius. 

Joe blushes, and Pete slaps himself internally because  _you fucking idiot he can_ _**hear** _ _you._ Joe giggles, softly, and then starts gnawing at his lip again. 

“Can I try something?” Pete raises a predominantly cautious eyebrow.

“What kinda something?” Joe shrugs.

“I wanna, like.” He ducks his head. “I wanna show you, you. Like, how I see you.”

Pete wants to say no. He wants to shake his head and pat Joe on the back and walk away, because he wants to be sure this isn't going to help. He's hated himself for this long, there shouldn't be a way for it to get better.

But he doesn't.

He  _can't_ . 

So he nods, and shrugs, as nonchalantly as he possibly can, even though he  _knows_ he can't fool Joe. 

Joe, for his part, doesn't say anything, just reaches out, and takes Pete's hand, and suddenly, they're not on the bus anymore.

  
  


_Joe's sixteen, and his hair hasn't even finished growing back from shaving his head, and why is he even **here** **.** The bar is fucking packed and they've been waiting for this stupid fucking band to go on for like ten hours and Mark ditched him to hit on some girl as soon as they got in, and he can't go home, because fucking Mark fucking drove him here, but standing awkwardly at the back of this room full of strangers is the opposite of what he wants to be doing with his Saturday night. _

_Finally, **finally,** a guy carrying the shittiest strat Joe's ever seen comes out onto the little almost-a-stage at the other end of the room, followed by a dude who slouches out to sit behind the drum kit, a bassist who looks like he's about to burst into a thousand tiny spiders, and then—_

_And then a guy steps out, with a haircut just as bad as Joe's, and a Black Flag t-shirt on, and grabs the mic._

“ _Our shitty fucking rhythm guitarist pussied out, but we're still Arma Angelus, and this is called Misanthrope.” And with that, the decomposing bassist starts an honestly fucking sick line, and the drummer stops melting down into his chair and starts **wailing** on his kit, and the dude with the shitty strat falls right into a riff that makes Joe honest-to-god jealous, and the guy with the hair...screams. _

_Joe's been to a lot of concerts, lately, has seen his fair share of shitty metal and screamo bands as he's made his way around the scene, but this? This is different._

_This guy sings with his whole body, throws every part of himself into the sounds he's making, and no, Joe's never really been one for screaming, but this is fucking **good**. _

_He does't realize he's been shifting his way up through the crowd until he's about twenty feet from the riser, looking at the guy with rapt attentino, and he's well aware of how ridiculous he looks, some stupid fucking highschool kid standing in the middle of a crowd at a fucking Arma Angelus concert staring up at the lead singer like he's found the word of god, but fuck all if he cares._

_The song ends, and the guy takes a swig from a bottle of something brown and mildly viscous looking, and grabs the mic again._

“ _Hey, assholes, I'm Pete.”_

_Joe shoves his hands in his pockets, and nods._

_Pete._

  
  


Flash _._

  
  


_Joe's seventeen, and Pete's just convinced him that he needs to steal an inflatable whale from outside Wal-Mart, and then driven away in the van before he can get back in._

_After running around in the parking lot for about half an hour, he returns the object to the disgruntled employee who came out to deal with him, and sits down on the curb to wait._

_Andy comes out of the store carrying a bag with probably the only vegan things you can even **get** in Wal-Mart, and plops down next to him, handing him whatever seems to pass for an apple, here, which Joe takes and starts to rub vigorously on his shirt because Pete says that there's enough pesticides on this shit to kill an elephant, and Andy agrees, which means it's definitely an actual possibility. _

“ _That was a dick move.” Andy says around a mouthful of fruit-like-substance, and Joe quirks an eyebrow._

“ _What? What'd I do?” Andy elbows him in the side._

“ _Not you, idiot. Pete.”_

_The van comes careening back around in a cloud of dust and a spray of gravel, and Pete tumbles out the drivers side door, his entire body shaking with unrestrained laughter as he falls down onto the pavement on the other side of Joe._

“ _Dude. **Dude** , that—was fucking hilarious.” Pete's arm falls around Joe's shoulder, and he tugs him close against his side, fingers wrapping tightly around Joe's upper arm. “You ran for like an hour, dude, that was **great.** ” _

_Joe grins, and ducks his head, and Pete ruffles his hair, and gets up, heading inside to actually buy whatever they came here for him to buy._

_Andy's quiet for a long, long moment, and Joe looks up at him, and shrugs._

“ _It's worth it, man.” He shuffles a little closer, and bumps their shoulders together. “Y'know?”_

_Andy looks down, but his fingers find Joe's above the pavement, feather-light, and they link together._

“ _Yeah.” He mumbles. “I know.”_

  
  


Flash _._

  
  


_Joe's nineteen, asleep in the back of the van, when it crashes._

_He wakes up with glass flying toward him and a branch sticking through the window, and he can't see Pete or Andy._

_He can't see Pete or Andy._

_Patrick's already moving, scrambling out of the back seat and trying to force open the door, and Joe's brain goes into overdrive, and he doesn't know how, but he's moving, going after Patrick, falling out of the van onto the snow._

_He looks around, and they're in the woods, the road's about twenty feet away, and as he watches, Pete stumbles out from around the other side, eyes wide and frenzied, darting around until they settle on Joe._

_Joe feels like he's dreaming, everything's gauzed and slow-moving and it's like the whole world is spinning, but then there are arms around him, and fingers in his hair, and Pete's holding him as close and as tight as he can, and Joe closes his eyes, and buries his face in the crook of Pete's neck, breathes in deep the smell of shitty cologne and sweat while Pete takes long, shuddering breaths._

“ _You're okay.” He rasps, and pulls back, holding Joe's face in both hands, flicking his eyes over him frantically. “You're okay, are you okay?”_

_Joe nods, dazedly, and Pete keels forward, resting their foreheads together, and exhaling slowly. Joe curls his fingers in the folds of Pete's shirt, and swallows, thickly._

“ _Where's Andy?” Pete's eyes snap open, and he whirls around, but Andy's already shuffling out from the other side, while Patrick starts frantically calling Mark in the other car._

“ _Is everybody okay?” Andy asks, eyes wild, and Joe acts on his instinct, and reaches for him. Pete's already latched onto Patrick, kissing his forehead, and his nose, and his cheeks while Patrick tries ineffectually to multitask talking on the phone and holding Pete back, and Joe stops pretending._

_He reaches out, and slides his fingers up into Andy's hair, and tugs him close enough to kiss him, long, and hard, and fucking **scared** , and Andy's arms slide around his waist and anchor him, there. _

_They pull back, and there's no awkward smiles or giggles, no explanations, no stuttering or apologies. There's just Andy's hands sliding up to pull him closer and Andy's face pressed into his shoulder, and the soft, beautiful sound of Andy's breathing mingling with his own._

  
  


_Flash._

  
  


_Joe's twenty-one, and Pete tried to kill himself._

_Joe's twenty-one, and the world is ending._

_He sits outside the ICU, with his foot tapping out an uneasy rhythm on the tile floor, and waits for someone to tell him something, to tell him **anything**. _

_They haven't even talked in three weeks, all that any of them have gotten from Pete is scrawled lyrics and Joe didn't know what to do, but he didn't think Pete would **die** \-- _

_Pete can't die._

_Pete cannot, under any circumstances, die._

_Every time he thinks about it, his breathing gets uneven, and his throat closes up, and he's not crying, but it's a damn near thing._

_Finally, **finally** Patrick's in front of him, and he's saying something that Joe doesn't really fully understand, but he hears the words 'stomach pump' and 'fine' and 'see him now' and that's all that matters, honestly. _

_The room is too white, and either the bed's too big or Pete's too small, because he's curled up with his back facing them under the blankets and he definitely looks wrong._

_Joe stays still, for a second, and then takes the chair next to his bed, which still has Pete's mom's coat thrown over it, like she just left for a cup of coffee, which, honestly, she probably did. He stares, long and hard, at the curve of Pete's back, the way his arms are curled around his stomach, and he wants to scream._

“ _Panda?” His voice is shaking, and he knows it, but he can't bring himself to care. Pete's shoulders curl a little farther inward._

“ _Go home, Joe.” Pete sounds broken, and stilted, and Joe hates it._

“ _Do you really want me to go?” Pete's body rises and falls with his breaths, and Joe wants to sink into that rhythm, that constant. He waits, for a long, long moment, but Pete doesn't say anything, so in spite of the fact that it makes his stomach churn and his whole body ache to do it, Joe stands up, and starts shuffling out of the room._

“ _No.” Pete's voice is harsh, and a little frantic, and when Joe turns around, Pete's trying to push himself up off the bed, toward him, and the tubes and wires attached to him are all straining and something starts beeping and Joe all but flies back across the room, and pushes him back down._

“ _Pete, no, stop.” He rests both hands on Pete's shoulders, and shakes his head. “Okay. I won't go. Okay?” Pete swallows, and Joe can finally see his face, how pale he is, the circles under his eyes, and how his jawline stands out when he nods._

“ _Okay.” Joe bites the inside of his lip, and gives in to the temptation to slide his hands up, and cup Pete's cheeks, brush his hair out of his forehead. Pete's eyes are wide, but he looks so **tired** , and he leans into Joe's touch like he's starving. _

“ _Don't--” Joe shakes his head, and swallows, thickly. “Don't leave me, here.” Pete's fingers come up to curl around his wrists, and he shakes his head._

“ _I won't.”_

  
  


Pete jerks back into reality the way that some people jerk back to a stopping position at the end of a rollercoaster, and almost falls off the couch. Joe's sitting with his legs crossed, and his hair is falling in his face, the way it did when they were kids, and looking at him, now, Pete can see just how Joe's come from then.

There are lines in the curves of his cheeks and his eyes that weren't there when he was seventeen, and his body has more to it, now, more height, more breadth.

But Pete meets Joe's eyes and they're still bright, bright blue, and still _alive,_ and he shakes his head.

“You—that—that's how—how you--” Joe nods. There's a long moment of silence, where Pete looks at Joe and Joe looks at Pete and then Pete launches himself across the couch, a little harder than usual and maybe his power is to blame for that, and he's burying his face int eh crook of Joe's neck, and letting longer, stronger arms wrap around him, and he never, ever wants to leave Joe, never.

Joe, for his part, doesn't say anything, but Pete figures he can hear him.

  
  


–

  
  


It's raining pretty hard, and Spencer watches the droplets hit his front walkway, making loud, wet, splattering sounds as they do. It's probably a good thing. His hydrangeas haven't gotten any rain in a while.

He's got an old sweater he doesn't remember buying wrapped around himself, and a cup of earl grey, and he's not thinking about Jon.

He's not thinking about Jon.

His _not thinking about—_ fuck it, he's thinking about Jon.

  
  


It's been three months since the whole Ryan thing, and Jon has left him fifteen voicemails, sent him fifty six text messages, and called without leaving a message another twelve times.

Spencer would say it was creepy and obsessive if it was, but it's not.

  
  


It's just Jon. It's the way Jon's always been, with him.

He gives, and he gives, and he gives, until Spencer can give something back.

  
  


So really, Spencer's the asshole, this time, because usually Jon doesn't have to wait three months to get back.

  
  


Brendon's been calling once every fifteen minutes or so, because he's Brendon, and he does that, but Spencer's not answering. His phone is inside, buried under a pile of laundry so he can't hear the buzzing, and he wishes he could say he felt bad about it.

Brendon's probably picked up his phone all of three times in the past four years, he can take a taste of his own fuckhead medicine.

  
  


So he's sitting outside staring at the little puddles that are forming and getting attacked by the obese fucking raindrops that are falling into them, and wondering how he can stop being an asshole.

  
  


Spencer's very, very used to being an asshole. Spencer has spent the majority of his adult life growling at people for waking him up, and living off of coffee and (briefly) prescription drugs, and probably not telling Brendon he loves him enough.

  
  


So the idea of calling Jon and telling him that it's okay, that Spencer's forgiven him, that Spencer forgave him the second he left and has been waiting and praying and aching for him to come back for three years, is foreign to him. He never did it with Ryan. He wouldn't, now, but then, Jon didn't try to turn Dallon into a charcoal briquet.

  
  


He's so lost in thought about Jon that he doesn't notice Jon walking up his front walkway.

  
  


“Guess it's good, right?” Spencer jerks his head up, and Jon is standing above him, with his hands in his pockets, and his hair plastered across his forehead. His shirt is soaked, and he's not wearing a jacket, because he's fucking Jon, and he probably thinks he's communing with nature or some shit.

“What?” Spencer blurts, and a smile tugs at the corners of Jon's mouth.

“The rain. Your flowers don't look so hot.” Spencer blinks, and looks at his Peonies. Jon's right. They're wilting.

“Um—yeah.” He shakes his head, and looks back up, opening his mouth to say something clever, but instead getting; “What—what are you doing here?” God damn it. Jon shrugs, and looks down.

“B thought I should come say hi.” He says softly, and jerks his head at the other side of the step. “Can I sit with you?” Spencer nods dumbly, and Jon sits, his sneakers squeaking a little with the water.

“You're not wearing a jacket.”

“You've got mine on.” Oh. So that's why he doesn't remember buying it.

“Do you want it back?” God damn it.

“No.” Jon's got his legs crossed under him, and he's looking down at his hands where they're playing with the damp sleeves of his shirt. “I like that you have it. It's kinda like you didn't give up on me, all the way.”

“I didn't give up on you at all.” The words are out before he can stop them, and yet somehow he's not wrought with anxiety over them. Jon has that effect on people. “I was always—always hoping.” He shrugs, and doesn't look at Jon, because then he'll have to see all the ways Jon's cheeks have hollowed out, the more defined line of his jaw, every way that Jon has grow up in the three years he's been gone, and maybe it'll be easier to deal with this if he can pretend nothing's changed.

“So was I.” It's soft-spoken, just like most of what Jon says, and Spencer's chest clenches because at least that's still the same. “I thought—I thought I'd never see you, again. I thought...” He's biting his cheek, Spencer knows without looking. “That I'd screwed up too much to come back.”

“I did, too.” Spencer says, and when he looks up, Jon's staring at him, hazel eyes fixed on him like he's the center of the universe, and maybe this is why it was so hard when Jon was gone.

Because no-one looked at him like that, anymore. Because no-one ever would.

“Was I right?” Jon asks, and Spencer's quiet for a minute, because he knows the answer, but it's hard to admit that you're wrong, and it's hard to admit that you need something that's already destroyed you once, and it's even harder when that thing is Jon Walker.

“No.” He mumbles, and shakes his head. “No, you weren't.” Jon's face lights up, and Spencer feels his stomach flutter, because he hasn't seen that smile in three years and _god_ did he miss it.

“You remember the last time we were out in the rain, like this?” Jon asks, and Spencer can't help but grin. Of course he remembers.

  
  


The middle of July, with the rain flooding the valleys and making power go out all over Vegas, and Ryan and Brendon had been fighting again. Spencer had murmured something to Jon about how much he wished they could just leave, and Jon had gotten that wicked glint in his eye, the one that Spencer hadn't gotten to see since Pretty. Odd. dropped, and dragged him outside.

The thunder was so loud and the rain was so hard and they were soaked before they'd taken ten steps, but Jon was smiling so wide and Spencer felt freer with each drop that fell on his shoulders, and they'd run down the street away from the sounds of Ryan and Brendon and the studio, away from being afraid and unsure, with their hands linked, slippery and cold and wet but still together.

They'd ended up huddling together under some old tree, with Jon's arms around Spencer's waist and Spencer clinging to his shirt for warmth, and Spencer had looked up and Jon was staring at him, with that same old look, and there had been a moment, where their mouths were millimeters apart, and Spencer could feel Jon's breath on his lips, and it would have been so _easy_ , and Jon had closed his eyes and leaned in, and everything had narrowed down to that moment, to that one, small, soft kiss.

  
  


Spencer's jolted back to reality by Jon's shoulder pressing against his. He's moved across the front walk, and his arm is wet, rainwater already seeping through Spencer's (Jon's) jacket into his skin. Jon's not looking at him, and it's not like he moved quickly, but Spencer was so lost he didn't notice, which is saying something.

  
  


“Why didn't--” He breaks off, and shakes his head. “Why didn't we ever...you know?”

“Well...” Jon says slowly, gently, folding his hands in his lap and biting his lip. “The band broke up officially a few days later, and—I thought--” He shrugs. “I don't know what I thought. Probably that you hated me.”

“I probably did.”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah.”

Spencer looks at his hands, and wonders how they'd fit into Jon's.

“I don't hate you, now, though.”

There's a long, pregnant silence, where Jon's perfectly still and Spencer maybe stops breathing, and it feels kind of like the world would be balancing on what Jon does next, if Spencer thought like that, which he doesn't.

“Then I guess maybe...maybe we could. You know.” Spencer huffs out something resembling a laugh, and is rewarded with Jon reaching over and tangling their fingers together, and as usual, it happens much more naturally than Spencer ever expects.

“Yeah.” He rasps, and squeezes Jon's hand, tighter than he thought he could. “Yeah, I know.”

–

They're locked out of the bus, again, standing in the rain somewhere outside Dallas while Pete presses his ear to the door and tries to get it open without breaking anything, but Joe doesn't really mind.

Andy's arms are wrapped around him, warm, and steady, keeping his back against his chest, and Patrick's standing next to them with their one umbrella, and Pete doesn't get to be under it because it's his fucking fault they got locked out in the first place, so he can get fucking wet, the little bastard.

“Can't you just--” Patrick flails his hand at Andy and then flails it at the door, and Andy shrugs.

“If you want to have to get a new door.” Patrick groans, his infinite patience for everyone but Pete beginning to wear thin, and Pete cries out in triumph, and stands up straight, pulling the door open with a soft click. They all make quiet, tired sounds of joy, and Pete bounds up onto the bus, already stripping off his sopping wet t-shirt and leaving it draped over a table. Joe kisses Andy's cheek, and disentangles himself gently, following Pete up onto the bus, and picking up the shirt as he goes to toss it into the hamper by the door to the bunks.

“I'm so fucking boss, dude!” Pete hollers from the back, and Joe nods, placatingly, sending a wave of good vibes and a little pride Pete's way, because, hey, he did do something moderately cool, to be fair. He hears Pete's soft whooping as he rummages around for a clean hoodie, and is only marginally surprised when he's tackled to the floor in a flurry of bare legs and clothes.

They roll around like that for a minute, desperately trying to pin one another down, until Joe's brain lights up like a christmas tree with inspiration, and he reaches for Pete's boxers, tugging them down in one fluid movement and causing Pete to shriek and roll away, frantically trying to pull them up. Joe laughs, really laughs, and god, it feels good to laugh, and gets up, grabbing his desired garment off the mess that's now all over the floor, and tugging it on as he heads out toward the front.

Andy's sitting on the couch, which he and Patrick have apparently decided needs to be folded out today, looking at the window and the rain as it drips down, and Joe crawls across it and curls up next to him, fitting easily into the curve of Andy's side.

“I'm gonna leech all your heat.” He warns, as Andy lays an arm around his back, pressing a kiss to his damp hair. “I'm a heat leech extraordinaire, I'll leech every bit of it out of you. You'll be like a vampire.” Andy reaches out with his free hand, and grabs Joe's arm, pulling it up to his mouth and biting lightly. Joe giggles, and tugs it down, flicking Andy's nose, and he gets a sweet, soft little smile in response.

“Get your love away from me.” Patrick grumps, pressing the button on the coffee maker like if he keeps pushing it it'll make the coffee come out faster. Which it wont.

“Pete!” Joe calls, and puts his legs over Andy's lap, getting comfortable up against his chest. “Patrick's being a bitter old man, again!”

“Baby, we've talked about this.” Pete's muffled voice emenates from the back room, and a moment later he steps out, wearing a pair of jeans that are absolutely too long for him (probably Joe's) and an argyle sweater that he absolutely did not buy (Patrick's). “You're not allowed to be grumpy about other people being happy when you're happy, too.”

Patrick waves his middle finger at Pete's face, and Pete grabs his hand, tugging him close and wrapping his arms around his waist. Joe turns away as Pete's burying his face in the crook of Patrick's neck, and rests his head on Andy's shoulder.

They're warm, and close, and the rain makes a soft pattering sound on the roof of the bus. It's peaceful, in the best possible way, and as Joe closes his eyes, he's basically fine with what he's getting on the psychic front.

Happy. Content. Adoring. Safe.

Safe.

 

**Author's Note:**

> title taken from Sophomore Slump Or Comeback Of The Year by Fall Out Boy


End file.
